Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Margot

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

"Noo. Dad. Why can't you text like a normal person?" I groan and bury my head under my pillow.

Buzzzz.

Damn, maybe he needs me to go on a pick-up with him. We get calls all times of the day and night to pick up bodies. It's my least favorite part of the business.

I roll out of bed, my feet tangling in the sheet. I fight my way free and hurry to the front door of my apartment on the top floor of the funeral home. I skid to a stop in front of the intercom and stab my thumb against the button.

"What's up, Dad?" I ask.

"The bikers are on their way. Open up the crematorium for them, show them how to use it?—"

"Wait, what?" I practically screech. Everything about his deal with the bikers seems shady. But I assumed they were using our business to launder their dirty money. Using our crematorium in the middle of the night points to something much more sinister.

Dark curiosity twists through me. I take a breath and pretend to be more concerned than intrigued. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Dad?"

"Just do it." He hesitates and the intercom clicks off, then on again. "Don't ask them questions and don't get involved in…whatever it is. Just show them how it works. Don't stray far though, in case they need something. And when they're done, go through the cleanup with them. Make sure they take the ashes and…anything else when they go."

How exactly am I supposed to force a bunch of bikers to do anything? But the time for questioning my father has long passed. "Okay, I can do that."

"Thank you, Margot." He sighs and the intercom goes dead again.

No warnings to be careful from my loving father. Either he trusts the bikers not to hurt me or he doesn't care if they do.

Confused, nervous, and more excited than a prudent woman should be, I hurry into my bedroom. In my cavernous closet, that's really more like a long, narrow bedroom, I study my options. A wig seems silly. There's no reason to disguise myself. I settle on thick black leggings, a black, long-sleeved T-shirt, and black sweatshirt. Finally, I twist my blonde hair into a loose bun and tuck it under a black knit cap.

The full-length mirror on the back of my closet door says I look like an amateur cat burglar.

No time to change. My father didn't give me a timeframe for when the bikers are going to rumble in here and make me an accessory to whatever crimes they've committed tonight.

I slip my feet into a pair of black sneakers and head down the wide, carpeted staircase to the first floor. Small motion lights pop on to brighten my way. Something necessary when I get calls in the middle of the night. The second floor is dark. My cousin's either asleep or out. On the first floor, I stop in the main kitchen and grab a bottle of water out of the fridge. Who knows how long I'll be waiting outside.

Darkness surrounds the parking lot behind the house. I shut off the motion-sensor lights that flood the parking lot whenever a car pulls in. It's not a populated area and it's not like we don't use the crematorium at night sometimes, but I'd rather not call attention to our activities. There's enough moonlight and lights spilling from the house to see what we're doing.

I glance over at my father's house, beyond the home's multi-car garage. All the windows are dark. Sure, my father probably went home and to sleep after he woke me up.

How much time do I have before the bikers get here?

I open the door to the crematorium and flip the lights on inside the low, brick building. The tools they'll need are lined up neatly against the opposite wall.

Now that it's ready. I return to the back porch, sit on the bottom step and stare up at the inky-blue sky.

Will Jigsaw be with the bikers tonight?

Three or four different vehicles roar along the main street out front. That has to be them.

A few seconds later, a dark, lifted truck pulls into the parking lot. A loud, rumbling diesel pickup follows, then another truck, and finally three or four motorcycles roar over the blacktop.

What the hell? It's like Mad Max and all his furious buddies just invaded my peaceful home.

Dark, shadowy figures step out of the trucks. I stand, clutching my water bottle tight in my hands.

What am I going to do if they attack—soak them with my spring water? They're bikers, not vampires. And this isn't holy water.

One of the dark figures moves to the tailgate of the first truck but he's stopped from opening it by the driver.

Four men move toward the house, and I hurry to meet them in the middle of the parking lot. As I get closer, I recognize the men who came to meet with my father, including Jigsaw.

My heart beats faster but I keep my expression blank. Should I say hello or just nod in greeting?

He's not here to flirt. He's here to burn a body.

Shaking that off, I focus on Marcel who seems to be limping and…bleeding? "Are you hurt?" I gasp when he stops in front of me.

So much for not asking any questions. But I can't help it. I didn't expect them to show up injured. Should I offer to get him a first aid kit or something?

Marcel flashes a faint smile. "I'll be all right." He tilts his head toward the crematorium building. "I'm not sure what information your father gave you…"

"He said to give you whatever you need." My gaze sweeps over the other men. No one else seems injured, but they all look weary and on edge.

"Show us how it works." Marcel nods to the building. "That's all we need."

It's almost like he wants me to hand over the keys and go away. "Oh. All right. I can do that."

I sneak a quick look at Jigsaw, but he's focused on one of the other trucks that pulled into the parking lot.

The man who tried to open the tailgate joins us. He's—surprise, surprise—another tall, muscled man with hair as black as midnight and piercing blue eyes. Every bit as good-looking as the other men. Maybe "sexy underwear model look" is a requirement to join their motorcycle club. Handsome as he is, his expression is as grim as the other four. He doesn't bother to introduce himself and I don't ask.

"I'll get it started." I turn. "Follow me."

I'm uncomfortably aware of the five bikers looming behind me as we cross the parking lot to the low, brick building that houses the cremation chamber. Good God, they could do anything to me and no one would ever know. Well, my father would but what would he do about it?

Absolute terror grips me as I unlock the door and step inside. I hurry to the giant metal box and pull out the rollers. Then I move to the side panel and fire up the chamber.

"Uh, usually you'd have a container or…" What am I saying. None of this is normal. "Without it, a, uh, body can clench and appear stiff…sometimes it freaks people out…" My voice trails off again. I doubt these men will get freaked out by a pugilistic stance. "You'll put…your, um, item in the retort. Close the door and…"

"Okay," Marcel says. "How long?"

How many bodies do they have? "The whole process takes two to three hours, depending on the size."

Jigsaw whistles and Murphy elbows him in the side.

"Then you'll scrape the bone fragments out through the bottom," I continue. "You can put them through the processor, that will grind them into ash." I point to the metal machine in the opposite corner. "I can get you a container for that."

Please take all evidence of tonight with you when you go.

I glance at the five men. Their expressions are blank.

Utterly terrifying.

"Do you want me to get you a cot?" I ask no one in particular.

Rock glances at the black-haired man who shrugs.

"No, that's fine," Rock says. "Thanks, Margot."

My gaze slides to the door. "Any artificial parts like medical devices, or pacemakers, knee or hip replacements and jewelry should be removed…" Why am I bothering? Dad said not to ask questions and here I am coming dangerously close to asking yet another question.

What has my father gotten us into?

The bikers exchange a few glances. They're going to end up tossing me in the chamber with whoever else is in the back of that pickup truck, aren't they?

I squirm in my shoes. Sweat collects along the band of my knit hat. Why'd I bother to dress like a cat burglar anyway?

"Hypothetically," the tall dark-haired one says. "If some of those things end up in there, what happens?" He jerks his thumb toward the chamber.

"Well, metal can withstand the heat of cremation. It'll be with the ashes and bone fragments. We use a magnet to collect the pieces to dispose of them separately. Sometimes the metal can be recycled but we don't usually do that." I'm rambling now, so unnerved by their intense interest in every word coming out of my mouth. I hurry to finish with the most important part. "But pacemakers or anything with a battery can explode, make noise or possibly damage the chamber."

Rock and Marcel exchange glances. Then Rock lifts his chin at me. "All right. Thank you, Margot."

That sounds like a get lost dismissal to me. But I can't just leave them here with the crematorium at full blast. What if they need something? Or break something? Or hurt themselves? Obviously, my father has no intention of disturbing his sleep to attend to the bikers' body burning needs.

Let's face it, they're not here to dispose of some financial records. There are definitely bodies in the back of that truck.

Don't be so judgmental, hypocrite.

But now that they don't seem as threatening, I'm not scared. I'm not disgusted either.

I'm enthralled. Fascinated.

What did they do tonight? Who did they kill? Was it someone who deserved to meet their maker? Or was it just some petty turf war dispute? According to all the research I'd done since I met Jigsaw, motorcycle clubs fight over territory and perceived insults all the time. Enemies of clubs—this one in particular—have a habit of "disappearing" according to the Empire Times .

"We're all set, Margot," Marcel says. "We don't need the cot."

Of course they don't need help transporting the bodies. They're men. Tall, muscular men who can easily protect themselves and carry a dead body when they're done doling out vigilante justice. They don't have to resort to creative methods for body removal. How freeing it must be to know you can handle the dirtiest jobs.

Marcel walks outside with the dark-haired one. Jigsaw follows him.

"Margot?" Rock prompts.

"Oh. I'll leave you be." I glance at the chamber that's roaring now. "I'll be close by if you need help with anything?—"

"No reason for you to get cold out there." He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. "Give Jigsaw your number. We'll text you if we need something."

I blink rapidly. He wants me to walk up to Jigsaw and give him my number? What if he laughs in my face? Or thinks I'm coming onto him?

Hardly the time for that.

"Sure, uh, okay." I force a shaky smile. "Can't I give it to you?"

The corners of his mouth slide up and his eyes crinkle at the corners. The smile of a man whose patience is running thin. "Left my phone in the truck."

"Right. Okay."

I hurry out into the cool night.

And run smack into a hard, warm, very tall male body.

"Easy, little one." Firm hands grip my shoulders, gently holding me steady. "Where's the fire?" A harsh crack of laughter follows the question.

I peer up into Jigsaw's cheerful face.

My lips twist with amusement. "Right in there."

He releases my shoulders but continues staring at me. "Where you going in such a hurry?"

"I got the feeling Rock didn't want me to stick around." I swallow hard and stare at his muddy boots. Where exactly were they tonight? "He, uh, wanted me to give you my number. So you can, uh, text or call me if you need something."

I finally meet his intense eyes again.

"That right?" His voice is low, almost teasing. The corners of his mouth hike up and he flicks his gaze toward the door. "Yeah, follow me."

He turns and walks toward the row of vehicles in the parking lot. Such a confident, casual swagger. As if he's not up to something nefarious in the middle of the night.

"Uh, where?" I hurry to keep up with his long stride.

He slows his steps. "My phone's in the truck."

"So is Rock's apparently," I mutter.

A tall, bearded man's leaning against the tailgate of the big diesel truck that pulled in earlier. He stiffly pulls away, standing straighter as we approach.

"You all right, motherclucker?" Jigsaw asks.

The man heaves out a long, annoyed breath. "How are you still this chipper?"

"I didn't get stabbed," Jigsaw answers in a cheerful tone. "Margot, this is my best friend, Rooster."

The first introduction of the night.

Rooster sucks in a pained breath and holds out his hand. "How are you, Margot?" He grips my hand in a quick firm shake. "Sorry we got you up in the middle of the night. Appreciate your help, though."

"Of course." I blink and drop my gaze to his side. "Are you okay? Did you really get stabbed?"

He flicks an annoyed glance at Jigsaw. "I'll be fine." He dips his chin and casts a friendly look my way. "Thank you, darlin'."

"I can get you gauze or we should at least clean it," I insist.

His expression doesn't change. "I'm okay."

I stare at Jigsaw, maybe he'll talk some sense into his friend.

As if he understands the questions in my eyes, Jigsaw smirks. "He's a stubborn one." He rests his hand on my elbow and steers me toward the passenger side door. "Let me grab my phone."

Phone. Right. I'm supposed to give Jigsaw my number and then get lost.

Jigsaw turns toward me, standing in the open door of the truck. Faint light from the interior glows over Jigsaw's tall, imposing frame, making him look both sinister and sexy. "Got your phone?" he asks.

"What?" I shove my hand in my front pocket. "Yes, but?—"

"I want you to take my number." He meets my eyes and one corner of his mouth curves. "In case you ever need anything."

Ever?

"Okay." I step closer until we're almost touching.

He leans in, his arm pressing against my shoulder, his heat folding over my skin. The scent of woods and earth surrounds me, and I fight the urge to lean my head on his chest.

"Here." He tugs my phone out of my hands and works his thumbs over the screen. His phone buzzes a second later, the screen lighting up with the words Last Responder.

I break into wild laughter. It's a common joke in the mortuary business and I'm impressed he came up with it. "I have a T-shirt of the grim reaper driving a hearse with Last Responder on it." I nod at the phone.

He chuckles and hands me back my phone. "I need to see you in that."

Pleasure rolls through my body, perking up parts I thought were dormant. Are we flirting? Or is he pretending to be interested in order to distract me, so I don't ask questions about what his brothers are doing here tonight?

The thought steals any joy that'd been bubbling inside me.

"Everyone gets a nickname," he says, throwing another breath-stealing grin at me.

"Huh?" I blink at him.

He holds out his phone and shimmies it from side to side in his hand. "Well, everyone important to the club gets a nickname."

Important to the club.

Wait a minute. I'm important to his club?

Duh, of course I am. His club wants after-hours access to my family's crematorium.

I need sleep.

"Is it okay if I save your number under Jigsaw ?" I peer up at him and hold out my phone.

"Sure. It sounds better than ‘random dipshit.'"

I explode with laughter. Twice in five minutes, he's made me laugh. This must be a record.

"Do you want something to drink?" I gesture toward the house. "For you and the guys?" I hurry to add so I don't sound desperate.

He lifts his head, staring over me in the direction of the crematorium. "Yeah. Appreciate it."

"Follow me." I hurry toward the house.

Behind me, there's murmuring and a harsh laugh. I stop and glance over my shoulder. Rooster and Jigsaw are scowling at each other. "Rooster, do you want to come in for a minute?" I ask.

"Nah, I'm all right. Thanks."

Jigsaw slaps his friend's shoulder and strides toward me, his long legs covering the pavement faster than mine.

At the back steps, he stops and waits for me to go first, then hurries to open the screen door for me.

"Thank you," I whisper in a breathless rush. It's not the brisk walk across the parking lot stealing the air from my lungs, it's him .

I push the door open and turn to the right, leading to the large, but outdated, main kitchen. "We keep refreshments and things here for…guests." It's been years since we used it as our family kitchen, but we keep it well stocked.

Jigsaw stands in the center, his head swiveling to take in the dated room. I throw a glance around, trying to see it through fresh eyes. Dark wood, mustard yellow countertops, and rust-colored appliances. An earthy color palette that probably brought warmth to the space at one point but now looks like it belongs in a museum.

"Do you cook in here?" Jigsaw asks.

Why does he want to know? "Uh, sometimes. When we have a viewing, I'll bake cookies or something."

He nods thoughtfully.

"Are you hungry?"

He slides his gaze over me. "A little but there's no time right now."

Right. Stupid question. I swallow down my sudden jangle of nerves. He's not going to hurt me. He can't stay long. They've had a rough night. He's only here to obtain some refreshments for his brothers.

"At least it's a nice night." I rub my hands over my pants a few times, then open the refrigerator. "Not raining or something." Am I really yammering about the weather?

I grab two bottles of water and close the refrigerator.

When I turn, Jigsaw's resting his back against the counter with his arms crossed over his chest. I hold out both bottles of water to him and he takes them. He sets one on the counter, uncaps the other, and takes a long sip without his eyes ever leaving my face.

"I have more water under here." I turn and bend down, opening one of the lower cabinets and pulling out a case of bottled water. Nothing fancy. Plain, generic spring water.

"Don't worry about it." The plastic bottle crinkles and pops.

"It's no trouble." I heft the case into the air.

"Margot." Jigsaw's at my side, taking the case from my hands and setting it on the counter. "You're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm stronger than I look." I flex my arm, not that it shows off anything since I'm wearing a sweatshirt. "I pick up bodies, remember?"

Instead of laughing, he tilts his head and studies me as if I'm the most fascinating thing he's encountered. "You do that by yourself?"

"No. Goodness. No. We go in teams of two, sometimes three people, if necessary."

Something buzzes. Jigsaw slips his hand into his pocket and the buzzing stops. "I need to get out there and help."

"Sure. Oh! Let me get you a first aid kit for Rooster."

I raise on tiptoes and fling one of the top cabinets open. Instead of a first aid kit, I find a package of gauze. "I can run upstairs and grab?—"

"This will work." He plucks the package from my hands. "You saw how stubborn he is. Thanks."

He glances at the case of water again. "You sure you don't need it?"

"I have more down there." I gesture toward the cabinet. "We go through a lot whenever there's a service."

Nodding, he hefts the case under one arm, carrying it as if it weighs nothing. I scurry ahead to open the door for him.

"I'll, uh, be around if you need something," I say.

"We'll try not to bother you." His lips quirk. "Pretend we're not even here."

Is he being funny or was that a warning to mind my own business?

In the doorway, he kicks his foot out, holding it open. "Lock up behind me."

Before I have a chance to tell him I always lock the doors, he leans down, his face close to mine. For some reason my body thinks he's going in for a friendly kiss on the cheek and I turn my head slightly.

But he pivots and captures my lips instead. A soft warm brush of his lips with a slight scratch of stubble.

It's over before I have a chance to react.

Or kiss him back.

"Night, Margot."

Stunned, I stare up at him. He kissed me.

He's not smirking or laughing. No, he's staring at me like he wants to eat me alive.

"See you soon." His low, warm voice sounds like a promise or a threat.

I lock the door behind him, hurry upstairs, and don't look back.